Good Again
by forthegenuine
Summary: "I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May, May 8th..." Birthday fic.


**Author's Notes**: A bit of fluff for Katniss' birthday. I celebrate fictional characters' birthdays, okay? Thank you for reading!

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There was a dearth of conversation during dinner. Peeta, who is normally a fount of stories––of people returning to District 12, of the amusing thing Haymitch said that day, but _oh well_ she should have been there––was unusually quiet. Katniss tried to read his mood, meanwhile supplementing the conversation by sharing her discovery of a new method of assembling a snare. After Peeta's obviously forced "Wow, that's great!" was followed by silence, Katniss internally realized why she doesn't do most of the talking.

While Peeta was not in a talkative spirit, throughout dinner, she noticed that his eyes kept darting to her, but when she looked up, he did his best to avoid eye contact. Her curiosity about his odd behavior was mounting to worry, but she wasn't sure how to broach the subject just yet. Maybe he'd had a bad day and didn't know how to tell her? She did her best to simply focus on the sounds of clinking silverware on ceramic, and the insects outside, chirping in their nighttime serenade.

Not a moment after Katniss finished the last bite of the stew Peeta made and set her fork down, he stood quickly from his chair, its feet scuffing the floor loudly. Katniss didn't hold back and gave Peeta a quizzical look. "Peeta, you're acting very weird," she observed, as if it was necessary to note.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I know. I'm sorry."

She was almost afraid to ask. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

He didn't answer, but instead, moved toward the refrigerator. He opened it, and for a moment, half his body disappeared behind the outspread doors. Finding the object he was looking for, he closed the refrigerator with his foot. From what Katniss could see, he carried a small box and placed it in front of her. She looked at him inquiringly, but he gave no explanation.

Peeta sat down and scooted his chair closer to her, as if he was about to confess something to her. "I couldn't decide if I should bring this home from the bakery, but I thought I might regret it if I didn't..." As his voice trailed, he opened the top of the box. Katniss peered inside and laid eyes on a small, crudely-made, but still appetizing-looking cake. It was covered in smooth, creamy frosting and adorned with tiny candied white flowers and olive green leaves.

"You made me a cake?" she said incredulously. She laughed, releasing the nerves she'd held in all night, relieved it wasn't worse than cake.

"It's made mostly of sugar, flour, and... more sugar," he explained apologetically. "It's pretty much like the bread we just had with dinner, but without the yeast. Couldn't find much by way of ingredients for a proper cake." He took a deep breath, and Katniss could see he was searching for the right words. "I know you never really celebrated your birthday before because it meant taking out tesserae, but I thought maybe… since things are different now… birthdays can be good again." He punctuated this with a hopeful smile.

Katniss regarded him, her eyes shining as she absorbed his meaning. She thought back to the times before Prim's reaping, and the secret but vain desire to celebrate her birthday, but having adult worries weighing on her young shoulders. As she looked at him, and the telltale smudge of flour on his cheek that she didn't notice before, she saw the promise of life ahead. "Peeta," she breathed, "That's... sweet."

"Yeah, I know," he said regretfully, "I think the sugar is what's holding it up, actually," not understanding her meaning.

"No," she corrected, reaching over to grasp his hand, "I meant _you're_ sweet for doing this. No one's ever made me a cake before."

He nodded, moving his hand to give Katniss's a squeeze in return. "Happy birthday."

She responded by bringing her face close to his, and leaned in to place a kiss full on his lips. "Thank you," she whispered.

"It was nothing," he shrugged, turning away so he can hide the enormous grin that was now plastered on his face, as he got up to retrieve plates, forks, and a knife.

From then on, he resolved to make her a cake every year for her birthday.

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**end.**


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